Letters from London
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: Several months after Emily leaves for England, George receives a letter. [Spoilers for 9x03. Very canon divergent from that episode. Written before we actually met Rebecca, so she is a bit OOC. Gemily. Complete]


A/N: Well, my friends, we knew it would eventually come to this. Even though I'm attending university in America, I've seen the first three episodes of season nine. I understand that Georgina is married to a man who is currently acting in the states, and she's left the show to be with him, so the odds of her returning permanently to the show are slim to none. But we can still dream, can't we?

I'm aware that actress and woman of color Mouna Traore is joining the cast this season as Rebecca James, a recent arrival to the city that Julia takes under her wing. Entering that name into my search engine, I was struck by her beauty and poise, and the headcanons began to flow freely. From initial impressions, I can honestly see her as more of a love interest for Henry, but we'll see where this goes. (One episode late in the season is to be titled _Unlucky in Love_...yikes.)

As soon as the new episode airs on Monday and we learn more things about Rebecca's role on the show, I'm aware that this will no longer be canon compliant. For simplicity's sake, we will call it canon divergent, a straight line drawn at an angle from one event in the timeline. Spoilers for 9x03. Unabashed Gemily shipperage, which I doubt will every really die for me. Unbetaed, all mistakes are mine. There will be a companion piece from Emily's point of view, as soon as I get around to it.

 **Letters from London**

"You've got to let go, Emily," he murmurs into her hair, although he makes no effort to release his hold on her waist.

She sighs, shifting further into his arms. Something about this feels dangerously familiar. "What if I don't want to, George?"

 _Yes, what if?_ What if part of her was fleeing Toronto for completely different reasons than she had intended? What if she was waiting until the last moment for a sign, from the divine or elsewhere?

Emily murmured something about making a mistake, which was scarcely heard over the racing of his thoughts.

"Well, that's just something you'll have to find out," he replies, striving to keep all of the emotion out of his voice. They separate, holding each other at arm's length.

"Goodbye, George Crabtree," she says with a noticeable tremor, retrieving her suitcase from the ground.

"Goodbye, Emily Grace," he echoes her sentiment, reaching out to touch her braid out of curiosity. It's the first time he's seen her wear her hair that way in a long time; perhaps it is to represent new beginnings. This gesture feels strangely intimate and out of place in the situation. Squeezing his hand, she steps back and turns to face the facade of the train station.

For the young man, it was now or never. Digging his fingernails into his palms, he steels his nerves and calls out her name once more.

It's the call to action she's been waiting for. Turning on her heels, Emily is back to him in an instant. For a heart stopping moment, they're exchanging the most urgent, breathless kisses, and then-

-0-

George awakes with a start, dismayed to find that he is, in fact, at home in his own bed. One glance to the left confirms that the day has not yet dawned on the city, and he's faced with the prospect of yet another restless night.

The dreams had been subtle at first, few and far between, of seemingly innocuous things. They're on Ontario Street feasting on hot dogs, watching out for mole men, then strolling through the park at dusk. Then they became more and more frequent and of greater emotional weight. He's holding Emily back as she lunges for Lillian's lifeless body. They're in the morgue, having an argument during the early stages of their relationship. And then came visions like these, which had kept him up for half the night, every night, for the past few weeks.

This is one is of considerably more germane subject matter than the night before, when he rose from his bed shortly after two in the morning, finding himself drenched in sweat and heart pounding out of time. All the same, he can still feel the weight of her arms latched around his neck, her lips on his cheek. His need for her has not dissipated with time, much unlike he'd expected. And now he finds himself at the washbasin, drawing water into the bowl and wetting his hands. Sleep's haze clears steeply; he buries his face into them and breathes deeply.

It's been exactly four months, three weeks, and six days since Dr. Grace departed for London, and he feels no better than the moment she left. Most of his waking hours are spent in the throes of regret. _Why on earth did he let her go?_

He knows why. Because what they had in the past was long forgotten by the time this whole business with Gladys and Joe came around. Because her lover had just died, and it would be dishonorable of him to take advantage of her emotional state. This, and a host of other reasons. The timing just wasn't right. Perhaps it would never be right, but none of that mattered. He had lost his chance.

Returning to his bed, George sat heavily on the edge and shut his eyes.

-0-

He arrives to the station house several hours later to an unexpected surprise. Tucked in one of the folds of the mailbag is discovered a letter addressed to him. By the sights of it, it had been mailed weeks ago, from a post office near…

 _Trafalgar Square_. A trim photograph of the landmark is nestled between the folds of the manuscript, which is written in neat, centimeter tall letters. Turning over the envelope, his eyes finally fall on the name of the addresser.

George reaches out for the armrest of his desk chair and sits heavily. He would have thought that a new job and involvement with the overseas suffrage movement would have kept Emily busy. At long last, had she realized her mistake? Was she going to declare her intention to return home, or that she'd found a new lover and decided to marry? Truth be told, he wasn't sure how he'd begin to come to terms with _either_ extreme.

He set the letter down and crossed his arms. The natural bustle of the station house had continued around him, regardless of the internal crisis he was currently suffering. Worsley and Jackson stumble through the front door, having seized great handfuls of the collars of several rather scruffy-looking drifters. Detective Murdoch was standing before his chalkboard, pointing out a series of discoveries to the Inspector who, if his body language was any indication, was still very skeptical on the matter. Higgins was in deep conversation with Rebecca, Dr. Ogden's newest protegee. It was plain to see that his fellow constable was sweet on the young doctor, and he didn't blame him; Miss James was a graceful woman, with sculpted cheekbones and skin the color of cocoa. And although her temperament was gentle, she possessed a sharp mind and a reputation for not suffering fools lightly. But George saw nothing in her besides a loyal colleague, and he suspected, eventually, a treasured friend.

Rebecca caught him looking in her direction and waved, her lips splitting in a brilliant smile. George quickly averted his eyes, suddenly finding the polished tips of his shoes very interesting.

"My goodness, what's eating George?" She wondered aloud to her companion.

Normally Henry wouldn't be so prescient to the goings-on of the station house, but today he had special insight. Leaning into the front desk where they stood, he muttered under his breath, "I have on good authority that he received a letter from Dr. Grace this morning."

Her eyes lit up with recognition, for her superior had spoken of the former coroner often. If she remembered correctly, Emily had been highly respected in her field and an active member of the Toronto chapter of the Women's Suffrage Society. She was even somewhat of a sapphist, and didn't care who knew it, something that endlessly fascinated Rebecca.

"Were they not lovers?" She questioned, lowering her voice.

Henry nodded solemnly. Although he cared for his best friend, and would be sure to support him through whatever emotional trauma would certainly follow, he knew that at least one of them should be lucky in love. "Never mind their business, Dr. James. What do you say to accompanying me to lunch?"

She bristled, as if she was expecting his proposal to have been a joke. Then, realizing that no one was waiting on her words, she replied, "Of course, Constable Higgins."

Before they had even made it through the threshold, Henry had decided that he quite liked the feeling of her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Back in the bullpen, George had finally worked up the courage to retrieve the letter and unfold it at the creases.

 _George:_

 _I'm having a lovely time in London. My coworkers are charming, even though the lawmen I meet aren't nearly as intelligent as you or the detective. Please see the attached photograph._

 _Emily_

As if he hadn't spent enough time staring at the image while he was trying to steel his nerves. He studied the blurred forms of the pedestrians, their eyes downcast as they fought against the rain. The normally crystal clear waters of the fountain pools looked out of place in the bleary landscape. The rounded forms of the buildings seemed to bracket Nelson's column, drawing attention to the four bronze lions that guarded the structure at its base. It was a lovely image, really, but what was it about it that warranted a second look?

Something bright on the back of the photograph caught his attention. A delicate lip print, the corners drawn up in an unseen smile, had been cast onto the card stock with crimson rouge.

Suddenly George understood.

Storing the letter in the top drawer of his desk, he pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery and began to write.

-0-

The next evening, George sat in the same position, his fountain pen poised over an empty page.

It was infuriating. All day, through their investigation of the latest case to the rounding up of the true culprits, his self-imposed obligation had been in the back of his mind. He'd missed several clues placed in plain sight, drawing a rebuke from Detective Murdoch for not paying attention and possibly delaying their case even further. It wasn't as if he could help it. Every time he closed his eyes to trace the behavior and locations of their suspects, he'd receive a mental image of something entirely different.

His obsession with penning a response was ludicrous. Emily was her own woman, with her own ambitions. She wouldn't be waiting with bated breath on a letter from a former suitor, so neither should he. Honestly, perhaps there was a reason that their parting of ways had been relatively painless.

 _Had it really, though?_

"I'd just write what first comes to your mind."

George was startled, nearly stabbing himself with the tip of his pen in the process. Higgins was perched a few feet away on the far edge of the desk, his chin in his hand and expression contemplative. "Whatever do you mean?"

"We all know that you've been trying to reply to Emily's letter all day. To borrow an expression from my late mother, it's written all over your face," his friend continued, reaching for the paper beneath his hands.

The Newfoundlander tore it away from his reach. "So you've been looking into my business, have you?"

"Like I said, it's not difficult to notice," Henry contested.

"It's also not your problem," he retorted, his tone sharp with vitriol. Out of the corner of his eye, he took stock of Dr. James approaching with a file folder, most likely coming with her final autopsy report of the night. Something about this situation, so familiar and full of painful memories, struck a nerve within him. Standing abruptly, George added, "And I'd rather you not get involved."

"It's difficult not to," his fellow constable exclaimed, drawing himself up to his full height.

The two were silent for a moment, as if they were sizing each other up to prepare for a confrontation. Quietly, she cut in, "We can see you're hurting inside, Constable…"

That was it. Not bothering to retrieve his coat from the rack by the wall, George rushed past her on his way to the door.

Henry heard his friend's name escape his lips before he could stop himself. "Come with me," he said as an afterthought, hoping she wouldn't need an invitation to join him. Such matters of the heart certainly warranted a female perspective.

She set her report on Henry's desk and waited, as if she was planning to follow him a few paces behind. To her surprise, his much larger hand slipped into hers, their fingers intertwining almost automatically. "Rebecca, you will come along side me or not at all. You are second to no one."

Outside, George had nearly reached the corner. Once he turned the corner, he could easily escape his pursuers. That was what he needed. Time to think. Time to work things out. Time to-

"George!" Someone called out his name, catching him by the arm and dragging him back just as a carriage thundered past, its horses trampling over the place where he had been preparing to step.

His heart was pounding, and every bit of his body fairly coursed with adrenaline. Turning to face his rescuer, he was surprised to see none other than Dr. Rebecca James.

"Before you speak, I want you to listen to us," she said, her placid tone betrayed by the fire smoldering in her eyes.

He nodded slowly, as words seemed to have escaped him at the moment. George sank to his haunches, inhaling great gulps of air as he attempted to recover from what certainly wasn't his first near death experience.

"What are you thinking? You could have been-"

"Be quiet, Henry!" She cried, extending a hand to their friend on the ground. Gratefully, he accepted the assistance and managed to stand up slowly.

Once she was sure the constable would be alright-she hoped he would indulge her for pressing two fingers to the pulse points of the inside of his wrists-Rebecca finally found the courage to vocalize her feelings on the matter. "Listen, Mr. Crabtree, I haven't known you for very long, but I sure have heard a lot about you. I don't know how you work, and I don't know how you think. And one thing is for sure, I don't know how your relationship with Dr. Grace transpired. Only you do, even if you refuse to speak about it. And that's fine, I'm not pretending I'm in any position of authority to say what is right and what it wrong. But I must ask, because not doing so would do more harm than good. Do you want to take these feelings you've got bottled within you to the grave?"

George could no longer hear the blood pounding in his ears. Testing out his voice for the first time, he croaked out, "No."

She dropped his wrists and stepped back, nearly into the circle of Henry's arms. A wave of tenderness hit her expression in that instant as she replied, "That's good, because you almost did."

-0-

 _My dearest Emily:_

 _I hope this letter reaches you in good health. I'm writing this as I sit in bed, the lantern on low with moonlight streaming in through the window. You once told me that you composed many letters in this position, and it was most conducive to the writing process. I have to admit that your logic is sound, as always._

(series of scribbles and stray pen marks)

 _I promised myself I wouldn't drag this out as I'm prone to doing with most things, but I'm struggling with that. Please, if you start to find this too long, or if you're particularly busy at the moment, I encourage you to skip to the end. It will certainly take me a while to get around to it._

 _When I first met you, I knew that you were something special. My Aunt Daisy once told me about the moment she first laid eyes on her favorite client, how the color rose to her cheeks and she couldn't for the life of her form a coherent thought. Yes, you are beautiful-you still are-but it was something other than that._

 _All of my life I have felt incapable of love. I'm not too extraordinary in any capacity, really, and I have a nervous disposition. But for the first time, certainly out of any woman that I've met, you made me feel valued. As a colleague, a friend, and eventually as a lover._

 _Oh, Emily, please keep reading, for it can only get better from here._

 _Our relationship was rocky from the start. We were both young and insecure, jealous of each other only in the way sweethearts can be. When you left me for Leslie Garland, yes, I was enraged, but I was more hurt than anything else. But by the time you had grown to realize that, I had become cold towards you, and didn't accept your apology when it was sincere._

 _Then came that long year when I should have reached out to you, I should have made amends when it was at all possible. But we convinced ourselves that we were comfortable in the absence of one other, in that capacity of coworkers and casual friends. And it was that way for quite some time._

(a paragraph has been written and then scribbled out with a liberal hand)

 _Then Edna came along. I must admit, after my time of trial has passed, that I only loved her for a memory, a fleeting possibility of what I thought we could be. I loved her because I could not love you. I would not allow myself to. I was happy that you'd found companionship with Lillian, so happy that I knew I'd be able to go on without you. When I went to prison, I knew I hadn't disappointed you, because you of all people had my best interests at heart._

 _After I was hired back on, I had some hope of making amends. But then another tragic event struck our little world, and I couldn't bring myself to come between you and what you'd set your mind to._

 _How I wanted to run after you that day I drove you to Union Station, to tell you I was sorry for everything I'd done to you and what we could have had together. But I have missed my chance. The more days that pass, the more I have to come to terms with that. We existed apart from each other for so many years before we met without knowing what we were missing. Fate will continue its endless march whether or not I am by your side. Because after so long I have made peace with my God, I know this to be true. And I find it comforting._

 _I will close this letter by disclosing something I have kept close to my own heart for far too long. I do love you Emily Grace-I still do, and I always will. Please do not feel pressured to respond. I hope that London gives to you all you have ever wanted and more, and I hope you are happy. I will be too, one day, perhaps not so far away. And it will all be alright, because there is no way it could not be._

 _Yours truly, George_

-0-

It was well past nightfall when the constable sank into his desk chair for the first time all day. It had been a busy afternoon-two cases had been solved almost concurrently-and he was looking forward to a brief moment of respite before making his trek towards home.

"Crabtree! Fetch me the penknife!" A distinct Scottish accent came from the glassed-in room behind him, and he quickly hopped to the task.

Opening the top drawer of his desk, he was treated to the sight of something he hadn't laid eyes on in over a month. A letter, folded with haste against its natural grain, had been stuffed haphazardly between sheets of drafting paper. From where he sat, he could just make out the corner of a photograph.

"George, there's someone here to speak with you," Henry appeared seemingly out of nowhere, coming to stand alarmingly close to him. It seemed that he was being very keen to block his view of the front door.

"If it's my landlord, I'm not in," he answered wryly, "and give me a moment. I've got to locate something for the Inspector."

"If I'm not welcome, I can step out." The melodious sound of a contralto voice cut through the air, rendering a good deal of the station house into silence.

George's breath caught in his throat. As he stood, his legs shook so mightily that he feared he might fall to the ground. Before him stood a most welcome sight indeed, still swathed in her traveling clothes and a wide-brimmed hat.

"How-what-when did you-"

"A few hours ago," Emily replied, although her tone was beginning to waver with emotion. "I got here as quickly as I could. I just couldn't...I wouldn't see this unresolved."

He nodded, coming to stand within a few inches of her. To her credit, she holds his gaze, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

"You left London to return to Toronto?" He asked softly, if a bit rhetorically.

Emily is unquestionably aware that they've attracted the attention of most of the constables, and the Detective to boot. He's striving mightily to keep his guise hidden behind the pages of a technical manual as he observes the scene from the protection of his office.

"To come see you," she confirms, rummaging in her handbag. Finally, she produces a creased bit of paper, worn from many repeated readings. "About your letter. I had to let you know in person that…"

She closes her eyes, inhaling slowly. She knows that all eyes are on her at this moment. The taste of bile is strong in her throat.

"I certainly do love you, George Crabtree. I never ceased to."

Whatever reaction she had been expecting, she couldn't have anticipated the sight of silent tears running down his cheeks. Quietly, he draws her to his chest and holds her there for one impenetrable moment.

By this time, Inspector Brackenreid has emerged from his office to take stock of the situation. He shouts something to the remaining constables about returning to work, mostly so the reunited couple could be granted some privacy. He averts his eyes as they share a single indulgent kiss, electing to turn to face Constable Higgins instead.

Neither George nor Emily seem to notice when a substantial sum of money passes between their open hands.

Almost.

 **The End**


End file.
